


A Need to Focus

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because John is a BAMF. Even on his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Need to Focus

**Author's Note:**

> Happens Season 2, directly before Ep3. This has been stuck in my head for months now, the scene fully formed. I could probably write a fic for every song on the Mezzanine album, there’s just something about the music that screams SHERLOCK PWP, lol.
> 
> Inspired by: Inertia Creeps by Massive Attack

Sherlock watches from his bedroom. In front of his own full length mirror, adjusting his cuffs. Gaze cutting away from his own reflection. Into the hallway. The open bathroom door. The right side of John’s body, turned away from him.  
  
John’s reflection in the mirror above the sink, messing about with his collar. A new shirt. A new suit jacket. Both expensive. Sherlock had selected them, had them fitted properly to John’s frame. Hanging just right over dark jeans. New dark colored trainers. Also expensive. John’s selection.  
  
John with a hard stare and lips set in a thin line as he runs his thumbs under the pristine collar once more.  Not looking at Sherlock. Tense. Irritated.  Tugs at his cuffs.  Slight turn of his body.  
  
 _Focus._  
  
Sherlock snaps his gaze back to his own mirror and tosses his head once. Settling his curls. Settling his thoughts.  
\------  
  
The cab ride is a blank.  
  
Sherlock stares out the window. Watches late night London passing by, all garish colors and ignorant peoples. Drizzle blurring everything into a dulled haze.  
  
John’s oppressive presence on the other end of the seat. Body heat. Moderately priced cologne.  Heavy. Sweat and musk.  
  
 _Focus._  
\------  
  
It’s dark and bright and loud and reeks of alcohol and sex and second-hand smoke.  
  
Sherlock enters the club right behind John. Eyes locked onto the straight line of his flatmate’s shoulders in the fitted jacket.  _Focus_.  Immediately reinforces his mental barriers, concentrates. Blocks out extraneous stimuli. He moves past John and makes for the bar, brushing through a crowd of admiring looks and whispers and at least one inquisitive hand on his arm.  
  
John appears oblivious to it all. Sherlock watches him out of the corner of his eye as he sidles up to the bar at his elbow.  The bartender approaches with a smile. An appreciative look for John. Sherlock frowns and opens his mouth to order for them both.  
  
“ Pint of Stella.” John beats him to it. Quick jerk of his head toward Sherlock. “ And a vodka tonic.”  Flick of his hard eyes. Daring Sherlock to contradict. To refuse.    
  
Sherlock says nothing and looks about the room. Gives John his little victory. It won’t change how tonight will play out.  
  
 _Focus._  
  
\----------  
  
Sherlock moves away from the bar, mostly empty glass left at John’s elbow.  He doesn’t look back.  
  
Expects John to follow.  
  
John always follows.  
  
He penetrates the floor of dancing couples, smoothly stepping around swaying bodies, dazed smiles, barely disguised gropings.   A slow moving mass of sexual intent.  Sherlock works his way through to the other side of the club, jostled occasionally by the enthusiastic revellers.  Dimly lit area visually sectioned off by large pillars, serving as a sort of lounge for the wealthy young creatures. A place to sprawl about.  
  
Strobe light flashes. Couples on the couches. Against the wall. In various states of snogging. Cramped together, tangled bodies, elbow to elbow, knee to knee, brushing, rubbing against stranger and lover alike.  
  
Sherlock wants to find a darker corner, near the back.  Somewhere harder to be seen, easier to observe his surroundings. More private. But he’s grabbed, spun round,  and thrown against one of the pillars.    
  
John.  Holding him in place with a hand fisted in the lapel of his coat.  Face hard in the erratic bursts of white light. So close. Sherlock breathes in bitter hops and barley. Blinks at the change of plans, but this will work, as well. Another couple backs into the pillar just beside them, grinding against each other with blind enthusiasm.  
  
Perfect. This will work.  _Focus._  
  
Sherlock holds still as John begins kissing his way down his neck. Blunt teeth scraping just hard enough. Perfect amount of pressure against pale skin. Sherlock moans, though no one can hear him over the music. It still enhances the act.  John pushes his collar down and sucks a mark that Sherlock knows won’t fade for a long while. He grunts and arches, reflexes, fingers clenching in the small of John’s back.   John jerks away, anger flashing across his features, pinning Sherlock’s hands at his sides against the smooth plaster column.  His intent is clear, even in the dark. Sherlock throws an irritated glare back. Along with a sharp nod.  
  
This is not the plan. But it will work. So Sherlock will allow it to continue.  
  
 _Focus._  
  
He doesn’t struggle against John’s hold.  Goes back to his observation of the room over John’s head. Sherlock keeps his hands against the pillar when John pulls away, only absently aware of the man’s movements. Knows John is close, is stroking over his silky shirt under the jacket. Is nuzzling against his collarbone. But Sherlock is focused. This is the plan.  
  
Until his trouser zip is being pulled down.  
  
Not the plan. Not necessary for the plan.  
  
John slides down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock looks down, watches John hit his knees at his feet. Strong fingers tugging his half-hard cock between the slit of the open zip. Hot breath on sensitive skin.  Sherlock gasps at the first swipe of a tongue and he’s instantly hard as stone. “ John!” A harsh whisper lost in the beat. “ John!”  Hissing. He grabs at John’s short hair, trying to pull that lovely/perfect/distracting mouth away from his crotch. “ Stop this!”  
  
John’s only response is to push forward. Open mouth.  
  
Hot. Wet. Soft tongue. Scrape of an incisor.  
  
Not the plan.  
  
 _Focus!_  
  
Sherlock bites his lower lip, eyes squeezed shut for the briefest flicker.” Fuck...”  Then wide open. Sherlock tilts his head back, a solid thud against the pillar. Eyes methodically sweeping from one side of the club to the other, observing the room, the people at the bar, the lighting patterns, flow of foot traffic, exits, staff, dancers, couples...  
  
Not John. Not John. Not looking down at John who is sucking him off with determined aggressiveness.  All tongue and lips and back of his throat.  Sherlock’s hands are removed from John’s head, pushed firmly against the pillar at his sides. He’d forgotten. He can’t do that. Not now. Not looking.  John’s hands on his hips, holding him painfully tight.  Captured.  
  
Not the plan. This is not part of the plan.  
  
 _Focus._  
  
Bar across the room. Expensively tailored older gentleman leaning casually against the wood, trying to impress his newest mistress. Gaggle of twenty-somethings hovering at the corner, celebrating a homely young man’s birthday.  
  
 _Focus._  
  
Dancers a step away. Sweat trickling down that girl’s neck, not old enough to be here. Red blotches on her partner’s wrists, allergic to new perfume, new skirt, old blouse, both high as kites and John is sucking hard-  
  
 _Focus._  
  
Couple on his periphery, not quite behind the pillar, man’s low murmur, female wrist pinned near his own shoulder, sweat and vodka and hint of bleach John’s mouth tight and fast around him sucking sweaty hair dark in the flashing lights wants to stroke that bent head and dig his nails behind John’s ears woman’s hand fluttering blood red nails with tiny sparkles at the tips John’s tongue pressing hard just underneath man’s voice louder dark fingers around woman’s wrist glint of metal shiny tighter tighter tighter not looking need to find not looking not-  
  
An instant slowed to near stillness. Muffling of noise. Flashes of light crawling across his vision.  
  
Looking down.  
  
At John.  
  
John. Dark eyes all blown pupil. Soldier hard, deadly calm. Gaze aimed at the couple beside them.  
  
John. Arm raised. Sig pulled from his waistband. Weapon aimed unwaveringly at the head of the man with the small poison-tipped needle much too close to Sherlock’s bare hand.  
  
John. With that challenging glare on their suspect and Sherlock’s life held on the tip of his trigger finger and Sherlock’s cock still in his mouth.  
  
 _John..._  
  
Everything freezes. Sherlock cums, just as John is sliding his mouth off.  Blackness. A void of sound and light.  
  
A split second of perfect stillness and clarity within his mind.  
  
 _ **This** **.** I want ** this**._  
  
And then everything explodes back into being around him. The club. The music. The flashing colored strobes. The killer beside them. The woman in his arms laughing, still clueless.  
  
The shine of fluid dribbling down John’s lower lip. Trailing down his chin as he mouths, _ ‘ Tuck yourself in.’_  
  
Just as Lestrade and Donovan appear from the chaotic darkness.  Carefully bagging the tiny needle and cuffing the man simultaneously in smooth, practiced motions.  Lestrade focuses on the killer. Donovan tosses a smirk at John.  
  
Sherlock glares and tucks himself away as casually as John slips his firearm in the waistband at the small of his back. Deft fingers performing the necessary maneuvers while his sated body thrums and his pulse throbs in his ears. Sherlock absently wonders if John feels the same. Sex and violence. Dopamine and epinephrine flooding the system.  Amused by the thought of John tossing off in his pants without a single touch (not that he thinks that’s likely, he’s confident John is still hard and aching and waiting patiently to jump Sherlock once they are reasonably alone).  
  
There is a discussion waiting when they get home. Oh, yes. An argument before, during, and after John getting off is absolutely assured.  
  
And Sherlock has questions. And John will most likely have answers.  
  
Either way,  the look in John’s eyes says that this little incident will not simply be swept under the emotional carpet of their friendship like the others.  
  
No.  
  
This. Is. Something. Different.  
  
\---  
 **tbc**


	2. A Need to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because John needs to get his. And Sherlock needs to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs directly after A Need to Focus. Both occur between directly before S2Ep3 ( with slight spoiler for Ep3). 
> 
> Inspired by: Dissolved Girl by Massive Attack

The cab ride home is tense. And silent.  
  
It’s not until they reach 221b, climb the stairs, and enter the flat that Sherlock decides he’s waited long enough to speak. “ That was not the plan.”  
  
“ Yes, it was.” John’s voice behind him. Not as smug as he was at the club, talking to Lestrade outside, correcting Donovan.  Still firm, though. Quiet and forceful. Edged in... anger?  
  
“ No. It wasn’t.” Sherlock crosses the room to the window near the sofa, listening to John shut the door. Spins on his heel to face him. John is standing just inside the flat, unbuttoning his jacket. Dark blue eyes staring back.  Sherlock can feel his heart thudding in his chest. He undoes the buttons on his own suit jacket, folds it across the back of a desk chair. Begins on his shirt buttons.Toes off his shoes and stockings.  Knows where this is going.  
  
John tosses his own jacket onto the sofa. Sig pulled from the back of his waistband, weapon carefully laid upon the coffee table to be cleaned later.  Rough fingers working the buttons of his dress shirt. “ We infiltrated the club, masquerading as a couple,  and caught the killer in the act and no one was hurt.”  The navy silk falls open. The bulge in John’s jeans is on blatant display.  
  
Sherlock leaves his dove grey shirt hanging open. Shakes his head, irritated. Starts on his belt buckle. ” You know that’s not-”  
  
And John is in his space now. Dark eyes narrowed. Sherlock takes in a shaky breath. Sweat and cologne and beer and, dear God, Sherlock’s salty bitter cum is still on his lips. “ You mean the part where you pretend to snog the daylights outta me to bait the bastard while half the Yard watches from the shadows? “  John is not breathing heavily, Sherlock notes. He is angry, furious, to be sure, but the doctor is keeping it tightly reined in. Deep, even breaths. Steady hands at Sherlock’s belt, slipping it through the loops, dropping it on the floor.  Dull thud and clink.  
  
Sherlock shivers as John’s fingers brush across the flat of his belly.  Pulls his own trousers and pants down, letting them drop and stepping out of them neatly.  His cock is fully erect, fully rested and ready once more. Slides his hands around John, under his shirt, over the thin cotton vest. Careful not to push John too close to the coffee table. “ You vehemently disagreed with the first plan.” Sherlock doesn’t raise his voice. Isn’t angry. Merely curious. “ With me and Donovan- ”  
  
“ Yes.” John brushes his lips across the mark on Sherlock’s neck as he speaks.  His hands work his own belt, leather and metal and fingers against Sherlock’s bare skin.  
  
Sherlock swallows thickly. Tries not to arch against John. He doesn’t need him like this. It’s pleasant sometimes. And sometimes it’s not exactly pleasant, but it’s well worth the effort under certain circumstances.  He nuzzles against John’s jaw, teeth tugging at his earlobe.  Listens to the belt hit the carpet.  “ You couldn’t possibly think I’d have enjoyed it. ”  
  
“ I didn’t.”  John unbuttons and unzips and runs his hands all over Sherlock’s naked body.    
  
Sherlock frowns. Curious. He shrugs against the fabric of his shirt- his only remaining item of clothing- and busies himself with biting a large mark just under John’s ear. Pushes his hands into John’s waistband, tugging on the jeans and cheap cotton pants underneath. Finding hot skin, damp curls, a swollen prick.  Squeezing hard. John bites his nipple in retaliation, moaning low in his throat.  
  
Pushing back. Sherlock shuffling his feet until John falls backward onto the sofa. Flutter of silky shirt as Sherlock straddles John’s lap, folding his legs against the outside of his thighs. Raises up just enough for John to work his jeans and pants down a bit more. More access. Not enough, in Sherlock’s opinion. But enough. This time.  
  
Sherlock rocks against bare skin and rough denim. Fists his hands into the leather of the couch back. Picks up the thread of discussion as John continues to molest his chest. “ You were concerned for my safety.”  Groans at a rake of blunt nails down his back.  
  
“ Always.” Breathed against Sherlock’s left pectoral. John’s tongue on his nipple.  
  
Sherlock gasps and rubs his cock against John’s stomach, bollocks rubbing over the patch of dark golden hair.  John is shoving his hand between the cushion and the couch back, removing something. Sherlock’s entire body shudders when he spies the small plastic case, the kind used to store bar soap when camping.  He snatches it from John and opens the simple catch.  
  
A few condoms, a small- nearly empty- bottle of lubricant.  
  
Sherlock drops a wrapped condom into John’s open palm. Takes the bottle for his own. “ You didn’t want to be merely back-up. You needed to be right there.”  Forces the remainder of the clear fluid onto two fingers. Twists awkwardly behind himself, thrusting one slick finger into his arse. No hesitance. A few ins and outs and Sherlock pushes the second finger alongside the first. Spreading the thin liquid over his insides. Barely noting the stretch.  
  
John puts one hand on Sherlock’s hip. Helping him balance. Feeling the bone and muscle shift under flushed skin.  “ Of course.” His head resting on the back of the sofa, looking up into Sherlock’s face.  Holding the edge of the condom wrapper with his teeth. Careful rip of plastic. Thin latex disc removed.  
  
“ Better tactical position.” Sherlock removes his fingers and waits impatiently for John to unroll the condom over his prick.  Slaps the last bit of lube over the whole affair. Drops the crushed bottle onto the floor.  
  
“ Yes.”  John is still looking up at him. Watching.  
  
“ Better p-position for observation. ” Sherlock holds his gaze. Raises up. Messy hand helping John guide the sheathed length to his hole. He presses down, feels the tip catch in his flesh. Presses harder. Instant slide of thick flesh, slight friction of latex against skin around the base. Familiar burning stretch. Sherlock hangs his head, gasps open mouthed. God, the sensations...  
  
“ Y-you’d know better than me.” John has both hands on Sherlock’s hips now. Gripping hard. Moving with Sherlock’s rocking rhythm. Still watching.  
  
Sherlock rides in John’s lap, revels in John’s upward thrusts into his yielding body. Slams down hard to meet him. Open zipper grating against his inner thighs. “ You needed to prove...  your alpha maleness to the Yarders?” Smirking through the pleasure. Rests his temple against greying blond hair. Nudging John. Verbally pushing him. Wanting to keep the edge of anger, of carelessness. The intensity.  
  
“ That’s- that’s you. ”  John doesn’t rise to the bait, his response almost a chuff. But Sherlock yelps at the scrape of fingernails across his arsecheeks. John digs his fingers into the solid muscles. Quickens his pace, increases the force. Takes control.  
  
Sherlock tries to keep up. The tension is already building between his legs. He shoves a hand between them, gets his palm around his own cock, fingers curling. Jerking rapidly. Foreskin sliding effortlessly over the glans. He’s running out of theories. He’s too caught up for proper deductions. Too hot to think. John is pounding all rational thought out of his mind. “ You... j-just wanted to act like  _you_ were sno-snogging the daylights out of me?”    
  
He needs John to cum. He needs to cum. Right now. Doesn’t even care what the answer is anymore. Doesn’t quite remember what the question was in the first place.  
  
“ No.” Hitching breath. John leans forward. Presses his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder. Hitting the prostate brutally hard on each thrust. Losing rhythm.  
  
Sherlock whimpers,  whimpers , and buries his face against John’s neck, cheek pressed tight against his shoulder.  Harder, tighter, hotter hotter hotter slick and- Click. Into. Place.“ You didn’t want me to pretend to kiss you.” Strained whisper. Of course. Of course! The only variable left.  
  
A rush of chemicals. Pleasure. Victory. Clearing his head of superfluous drivel. Clean flashes of white behind his eyelids. Wave after wave of glorious sensation rippling through his flesh. Moving through it, feeling John tense and grip and curse through a tightly clenched jaw.  
  
Harsh panting. Quivering muscles. Wet.  
  
Sherlock is very much aware. Unpleasantly aware. That John has not replied to his final deduction.  
  
So he’d been right.  
  
His hips ache. Thighs and arms shaking. Hand wet. John’s arms loosely wrapped around him. Sherlock rubs his cheek on John’s shoulder. Sweaty silk and strong muscle.    
  
Sherlock knows, now.  But he still doesn’t understand. “ Why?”    
  
John’s hands on his face, cupping the sides. Lifting, holding his heavy head still. Sherlock’s vision is still a bit blurry, their very closeness skewing his sight. John’s eyelids. Bridge of his nose. Wrinkles in his forehead.  Sherlock can feel the man’s hot breath on his neck and collar bones, cooling the sweat.  Slight tilt, hands forcing his face down. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose.  
  
Kissing. John is kissing him. On the mouth. Passionately. Firmly, deeply, wetly. Possessively. Tongue invading, sweeping across his own inexperienced tongue. Hands refusing to let him pull away. Sherlock grunts in surprise. Then closes his eyes. Lets John lead and attempts to follow.  Despite the little voice in his hindbrain lecturing him.  
  
This isn’t supposed to happen.  
  
They don’t share a bed. They don’t get sentimental. They don’t get _ involved_.  
  
They don’t kiss.  
  
Because fucking is perfectly fine when there isn’t any Work and they have to expend that energy somehow.  Fucking is perfectly fine when they need reassurance that they are indeed alive and survived their latest brush with death. Fucking is fine. It’s biology. It’s chemistry. It’s nothing more than a shared outlet of mutual satisfaction.  
  
But this.  _This_ means something. To John, at least. Sherlock knows that John wants  _this_.  Wants it as much as Sherlock wanted John on his knees earlier with that thread of dangerous intent interwoven with lust and anger. Wants more than the fucking.  
  
And for a brief instant, Sherlock desperately wants what John wants. Even though he doesn’t know exactly what that is.    
  
Sherlock moves his hand from the back of the couch, fingers drifting toward John. The tips ghost over a stubbly jawline and John pulls back.  
  
Sherlock breathes. Licks his lips. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Eyes still shut. He listens to John’s voice, rough and weary. But not weak. Never weak. “ Because I’m tired of pretending.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes fly open. Confused, bleary. His hand wavers in the air. Uncertain. John’s hands fall from his face, slide around his body. Sherlock assumes it is to embrace. Instead, John hefts Sherlock’s not inconsiderable weight off his lap, gently rolling him to the side, onto the sofa.  
  
And gets up. And disposes of the condom. And picks up his belt and jacket. And doesn’t look back as he leaves the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind him.  
  
Mostly naked on the sofa cushion. Lube smeared, trickling slowly from his body. Shivering from the sudden loss of heat. Sherlock stares at the closed door.  
  
Nothing is said.  
  
And the next morning, Moriarity begins his new game...  
  
 **end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


End file.
